


Grieve

by romanticalgirl



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-05 19:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mourning is a long time coming</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grieve

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place immediately following the events of Mutiny/Retribution.
> 
> Originally posted 5-11-06

“Come, Sir.” Bush wrapped a steady arm around Horatio’s waist and helped him from his chair, paying no mind to the few others still remaining conscious in the tavern. “Let’s get you back to your ship.”

“My ship,” Horatio whispered softly, his voice laced with pain and regret. “At what cost?”

“Sir,” Bush murmured quietly as he guided him toward the door. “Not here.”

“I cannot set foot on it tonight, Mr. Bush, or I will wind up nearly as mad as Captain Sawyer.” He caught his breath on the threat of a sob. “And who will be there to catch me should I fall?”

Bush said nothing as he cast a desperate look at the serving wench who was watching them closely. “Do you have a room?”

“Small one. Nothing fit.”

“It will do. How much?” Bush paid the price she quoted then shifted his grip on Hornblower’s waist, altering the sway of his weight against him. He reached for Hornblower’s arm and draped it across his shoulders, keeping a tight hold on his wrist. “Will you help me?”

“I would not,” Horatio whispered loudly to the wide-eyed girl. “Helping us makes it quite likely you’ll hang.” He caught his breath shakily as Bush sighed.

“Ignore him. He’s quite drunk.”

“You’re them soldiers, then?”

“Sailors, madam,” Hornblower informed her indignantly. “We are sailors of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, late of the Renown. Some of us more late than others.” He laughed bitterly as Bush groaned and began walking, following the girl’s swirling skirts. She led them up a flight of stairs, blushing at the low, muttered curses Bush uttered as he forced Horatio along with him and then opened a door to a darkened, cold room. There was a small bed along the wall and the curtains were closed.

“I’ll have a light for you in just a moment, Sir.” She curtsied and hurried away as Bush forced Horatio into the room and deposited him unceremoniously on the bed.

“You’re a piss-poor drunk, Hornblower.” He knelt in front of Horatio and tugged his boots free, stripping off his stockings as well. Horatio fell back onto the bed, moaning softly. “You’ll be sick as a dog come morning, if you last that long.”

The girl stood in the doorway with a glowing lantern. At Bush’s nod, she set it on the low table by the window and glanced around. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“No. Thank you.” He dug a clatter of coins from his purse and handed them to her, watching her eyes light at the amount. “Silence would be most appreciated, madam. My friend is not himself this evening and it would not do him well to have others know how low the events of these past days has brought him.” He reached into her open hand and plucked two coins from it. “Your silence will buy you these.”

“I’ll not say a word, Sir.” She glanced at Horatio then at Bush. “He was quite polite for a drunkard, Sir.”

“Mr. Hornblower is polite to a fault, madam. Do him the same courtesy, if you please.” She nodded and hurried from the room, pulling the door shut behind her. Bush locked it and leaned against the rough-hewn wood. “Damn it, Hornblower.”

Horatio rolled away from Bush, offering his back as he curled toward the wall, his body tense and stiff as he clung to the far edge of the small mattress. Bush blew out a sigh and straightened, his eyes remaining on the rigid line of Horatio’s back as he stripped off his jacket and waistcoat, laying them across the small table next to the lantern. He unknotted his stock and crushed it in his fist, depositing the scrap of silk on top of the pile as he used his free hand to tug his shirt from his breeches.

He dragged the chair beside the bed and sank onto it, shifting on the stiff wood as he slipped off his shoes and bowed his head though Horatio still held his gaze. He only relaxed as Horatio’s tight muscles uncoiled slowly, sleep or drink overtaking him finally. Rubbing at his tired eyes, Bush stifled a yawn and shifted again, attempting to find something akin to comfort when Horatio stirred, his body jerking as he fought some silent, internal battle.

Bush didn’t move, unable to tear his eyes away as Horatio bent his head, the sharp line of his spine taut against his jacket as he curled in even further on himself, his hand flat against the wall until he curled it into a fist, raking it along the silver, slivered wood. His hand flattened again and he choked, barely making a sound as he finally stilled.

Leaning forward, Bush reached out a hand, stilling before he could touch the other man. Horatio’s body shook with the weight of a wracking sob, his voice pitched almost too low to hear. “Oh. Oh.”

Bush moved quickly, sliding onto the bed and gathering Horatio close, tugging his resistant body flush along his. Horatio tried to pull away, unable to break the hard grip of Bush’s hands as he held him tight. Silent, unrelenting sobs shook Horatio’s body as Bush’s hands moved over his chest and stomach, refusing to grant him any distance until he stilled again, his breath hitching in his throat.

Releasing him slowly, Bush’s retreat was cut off as Horatio turned quickly, pressing his thin frame hard against Bush’s bigger bulk. He burrowed in, his face buried against the rough swallow of Bush’s throat. His hand fisted in Bush’s shirt and Bush responded, his hands smoothing over the worn wool of Hornblower’s jacket, the rigid stiffness of his back.

Hornblower fist pounded against Bush’s chest before it moved up, fisting in the mass of hair just above Bush’s queue, fingers threading through the strands and then tightening in them until the pain forced a quick gasp from Bush’s lips. Hornblower lifted his head and found Bush’s mouth in that instant.

Teeth and lips and tongue pushed and bruised at Bush’s mouth, demanding and taking. Hornblower’s tongue sought out Bush’s, thrusting and tangling with it before he sucked it hard into his mouth, milking it roughly between his own tongue and the roof of his mouth. Bush groaned, the sound muffled but still loud in the silence of the room as Hornblower rolled further toward him, pushing Bush on his back.

Hornblower’s free hand slid under Bush’s shirt, rucking it up as far as possible given the weight of his own body atop him, rough and calloused fingers scraping through the dark hair to find the nub of Bush’s nipple, rasping across the hardened, yet sensitized skin. One of Bush’s hands fisted in the bed linens as the other stayed firmly in the small of Hornblower’s back, pressing the other man against him as Bush rolled his hips upward instinctively.

Jerking back, Hornblower pulled away, his lips stained dark. Bush licked his lips on instinct, surprised at the coppery taste of blood and the fissure in his lip. There was no expression on Hornblower’s face, nothing save the tight press of his lips and the hard darkness to his eyes. Bush opened his mouth to speak and Hornblower shook his head, the command obeyed on instinct.

Hornblower unbuttoned Bush’s breeches with deft fingers, no wasted movements. Bush did not allow himself to think as he raised his hips in answer, allowing Hornblower to tug the cloth off of him, pulling it down his legs and leaving him exposed and vulnerable, the evidence of his arousal, his desire laid plain in the long, hard length of his body. His muscles were wired and tensed, coiled as Hornblower’s eyes swept along the lines of Bush’s abdomen and his thighs, settling finally on the quivering flesh of his cock.

The rough bite of the buttons of Hornblower’s breeches dug into Bush’s thighs and more sensitive flesh as Hornblower moved in, quick and hard, capturing Bush in another demanding kiss. Bush still tasted blood, but it was muted by the slide of tongue and spit and need that Hornblower forced past his lips. Bush’s hands sought to touch, to fist in the fabric of Hornblower’s jacket, but he found himself batted away as Hornblower disposed of his own clothes as quickly as he had Bush’s breeches.

Stripped down to nothing but his shirt, Hornblower looked smaller, more like the young man he was rather than the Captain he had become. Bush lay there, watching, waiting for orders as Hornblower turned his impenetrable gaze back on him and wrapped a hard hand around Bush’s cock.

“Oh.” The sound left Bush’s throat involuntarily, forced through the thick heat that fogged his brain at the touch, at the feel of the swift strokes sliding along his length. Hornblower’s fingers were not gentle, digging into his flesh, holding tightly as his other hand pressed down at the base, holding Bush to the bed. Bush struggled to keep his eyes open against the sensation, his entire being focused on the steady pull of his cock, the hard ring of Hornblower’s fingers as they jerked at his flesh with punishing intensity.

His mouth opened again and Bush swallowed back the sound, unwilling to risk breaking the spell that held Hornblower’s eyes to the flushed tip of his cock in fear that he would stop. Instead, Hornblower’s hand tightened, focusing on the hard ridge of flesh, his hand moving quick and hard against the slick flesh, thumb sweeping over the wet skin. Bush growled low in his throat, his body spasming at Hornblower’s hand, his climax falling hot and wet against his stomach.

Bush breathed heavily, his heart hammering in his chest. He kept his eyes on Hornblower, noting the flushed skin and beaded sweat. There was still nothing in his face or his eyes as he pressed his fingers into the heated spill on Bush’s abdomen, bathing them in the thick liquid before pressing them to Bush’s body, penetrating him slowly but firmly, the hard thrust and scissor of his fingers spreading Bush’s flesh.

“Sir…” Bush whispered, closing his eyes against the fierce sensation, the rhythm of his breathing falling apart as Hornblower continued to thrust his fingers inside him, the demanding push transmuting from pain to pleasure. The thrusts worked deeper and sensation flooded Bush, forcing another sound from his throat, floating him long enough that he hardly missed the pressure of Hornblower’s fingers before the slick tip of Hornblower’s cock breached him.

Bush bit his lower lip, his tongue playing at the skin Hornblower’s kiss had broken, unable to think past the tight pain, the slow slide and stretch of flesh. He gasped and caught his breath again, blinking rapidly as Hornblower sheathed himself, his own expression one of tight concentration as he stilled, his body flush against Bush, his hands leaving bruises on Bush’s hips.

There was a sharp inhalation of air, suspiciously like a sob as Hornblower began moving, his fingers digging into Bush’s flesh, his hips jerking hard and fast. The rhythm brought Hornblower’s body against Bush’s erratically, Hornblower’s heavy breathing the only sound save the slap of flesh and Bush’s hiss of pain and pleasure mixed with every stroke. He shifted slightly and Hornblower groaned, his body falling forward as his hands caught at the mattress on either side of Bush’s head and he surrendered himself to the desperation that seemed to cling to his skin.

Hornblower drove his thrusts deeper, his breath heavy on Bush’s skin. Bush reached between them, wrapping his hand around his hardened flesh and stroked himself, staring at Hornblower’s face, enraptured by the tortured expression that darkened it. There was agony writ in his eyes, this struggle against his impending release and the pleasure it might bring clear as his breath stuttered hot against Bush’s chest and neck.

Release stained Bush’s skin again and Hornblower’s, forcing a low cry from Horatio’s mouth, a sharp pressure and then a flood of heat deep within Bush’s body. Bush closed his eyes as Hornblower slumped against him, both of them breathing in a staccato, the rise and fall of one chest against another. Bush laid a hand lightly on Hornblower’s back, his shirt clinging to the perspiration that gilded his flesh.

Bush had not cried out a name as he found his release. Hornblower had, and Bush was not surprised to hear that the name was not his own.

**

Bush woke slowly, stretching on the small bed, his body sore and tight, muscles coiled and tense. He sat up and glanced at himself and around the room, noting the wrinkled mess of his shirt as it fell to cover his stomach, shielding his eyes from the remnants of the night before dried on his skin. His breeches were folded neatly over the end of the bed and the room was empty but for the still steaming pitcher of water near the wash basin.

He got to his feet and shed his shirt, wincing as he stood, his body protesting the movement with a sharp flash of pain that ebbed quickly, the stiffness in his limbs fading as he walked to the basin and lost himself in his morning ablutions, not allowing his thoughts to fall to Hornblower even at the sight of his swollen, cracked lower lip or the dark bruises blossoming on his hips and thighs.

**

The gig bobbed in the slow waves as the men loaded the last of the supplies aboard. Bush stepped beside Hornblower and caught the wrist of one hand with his other behind his back, copying the Captain’s pose with practiced ease. “Captain.”

Hornblower turned his head and met Bush’s gaze. His eyes were still dark, but the edge of anguish was burned away, buried as deeply as Archie Kennedy’s body in some unacknowledged grave. “Mr. Bush.”

“I do hope it will not trouble you for me to ride with you as far as _Renown_ , Captain? With your permission?”

“Of course it is no trouble, Mr. Bush.” Hornblower nodded once and turned his attention back to the men shifting bundles and barrels in the center of the gig. Bush took a step back and sighed, his gaze falling to Hornblower’s hands. The long, elegant fingers that had filled him last night were the same, though the telling mark of dirt scuffed his wrists and stained his nails.

Bush nodded and lifted his chin, staring out to see. He had been wrong. Wherever Archie Kennedy lay, the grave was no longer unmarked and, though the previous night with Bush had blunted of stabbing edge of grief, it was clear that someone would continue to mourn.


End file.
